“Never mind,” I says to myself; “I’ve done a comrade a good turn.” And then I thought more and more of there being a feeling in the blacks’ minds that their hour was coming, or that ill-looking scoundrel would never have dared to insult a white woman in open day.
Ten minutes after, I was on my way to Captain Dyer, for, in spite of what Lizzy had said, I felt that, being under orders, it was my duty to report all that occurred with the blacks; for we might at any time have been under siege, and to have had unknown and treacherous enemies in the camp would have been ruin indeed.
“Well, Smith,” he said, smiling as I entered and saluted, “what news of the enemy?”
“Not much, sir,” I said; what I had to tell, going, as I have before said, very much against the grain. “I was in one of the empty rooms on the south side, when I heard a scream, and running up, I found it was Miss Ross.”
“What!” he roared, in a voice that would have startled a stronger man than I.
“Miss Ross’s maid, sir, with that black fellow Chunder, the mahout, trying to kiss her.”
“Well!” he said, with a black angry look overspreading his face.
“Well, sir,” I said, feeling quite red as I spoke, “he kissed my fist instead—that’s all.”
Captain Dyer began to walk up and down, playing with one of the buttons on his breast as was his way when eager and excited.
“Now, Smith,” he said at last, stopping short before me, “what does that mean?”